Phantasmagoria
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: A slight case of haunting.


Disclaimer: The characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: PG

Author's note: It's _Delirious_ from Mark's point of view (and it'll make a lot more sense if you've read that), which means it's a missing scene from _If You Could See What I See._

The last haunting is from my own story, _The Usual Suspects._

Many thanks to Susan, for betaing, and to Cheri, always an excellent sounding board.

**Phantasmagoria**

By L. M. Lewis

Mark spotted him from across the crowded patio, sitting at a table near the railing, overlooking the beach. He waved, and Flip waved back, then gestured him over with a smile. The smile, the friendly, casual greeting, McCormick couldn't help but feel an almost overwhelming happiness.

_Flip wouldn't forget you. You always knew that._

He worked his way between the tables and greeted his old friend. There was only the smallest sense of déjà vu; they'd been together and apart a half-dozen times over twice as many years. But this last parting had been the longest.

"Mark, how you keeping yourself?" The same voice, unchanged, warm (_What would change?_).

"Just fine," Mark's own smile broadened, though something seemed odd about what he'd just said. Flip didn't seem to notice, or else ignored the unspoken incongruence. He was a friend. He wouldn't bring up San Quentin unless Mark made the first move.

Mark sat and tried not to pay too much attention to the roll of drafting paper laid carefully on the unoccupied seat between them, but Flip had noticed that, too. He flagged the waiter down, and drinks appeared--wine, not beer.

_Maybe too red for wine_. It didn't matter. Flip hadn't forgotten him. He was lifting the roll from the seat like a magician who produces something wonderfully unexpected from a black box.

"You're the first to see this one. It's special." He cleared the space in front of him and spread the schematic with a flourish. "From the ground up," Flip beamed proudly, "all mine, no one else owns any of it."

Mark stared. He found he couldn't even speak for a moment. It was astonishing, yet somehow he understood it in its entirety at a single look. "Flip," he found his voice, "it's _perfect_."

"Well," Flip smiled a little shyly, glancing down with pride at his effort, "you know what they say--God is in the details."

Mark frowned lightly and tried to take his eyes off the drawings, mesmerizing as they were. He finally settled on Flip's face, those familiar features. _It's been so long._

"So, whaddaya say?" Flip's eyes twinkled. "It's your ride if you want it. You know I always figured you and me, we'd get back together, just like the old days. We were the best dirt-track team there ever was."

"We were," Mark was smiling again. "You have no idea, Flip." His face sobered a little. "There were times when I thought that must've all been some kinda dream. There were some nights . . ."

"It's all over now," Flip said very gently; the understanding in his voice was warm and deep. "That's all behind you."

Mark looked over his shoulder for a moment, out at the beach and the ocean, perfect white, perfect blue. The air was clear and warm. He turned back to Flip.

"Thank you. You'll never know how much the offer means to me."

"Then say 'yes'." Flip prodded.

"I . . ." Mark looked down at his watch and frowned, puzzled. It wasn't the one he'd nursed through two years in San Quentin, but it had stopped, nonetheless. "It's broken, dammit."

He flushed a little, feeling like he'd said something inexcusable.

"What's the matter?" Flip asked calmly. "You're not late for anything, are you?"

"No," Mark hesitated, "not really." He lifted his wrist to his ear and shook it gently, listening for the tell-tale signs of damage and hearing nothing. "Look, Flip, I'll have to ask Hardcastle. I can't just take off."

Flip looked puzzled. "You're not under parole anymore, are you?"

"No," Mark thought about this for a moment. "Not exactly . . . man, it's more complicated than that." He paused again, and then added, "I'm not sure exactly what I am . . . but I have to tell him."

Flip shrugged. "Okay, no hurry, I suppose."

"Good," Mark frowned again, then lifted his head slowly. "He'll be here soon." He wasn't sure where that thought had come from, but he repeated the last word quietly to himself, "_Soon_."

It was Flip's turn to frown, though there was more of a question in it. "What makes you so sure?" His voice was still all kindness.

Mark flinched; there'd been a sudden unexpected cool breeze off the ocean. "I dunno," he replied, a little more stubbornly. "He just will."

00000

He jerked at the sound of a dog howling in the distance. _No, a coyote_. The ground was cold and damp beneath him, and, above, the dark-on-dark of trees against the night sky. No lights, no noise of traffic.

00000

"Okay, it might be a while," Mark said to Flip. "I just have to be patient."

"Does he know where you are?"

A slow shake of the head. "_I_ don't even know where I am."

"The beach." Flip smiled at the obvious.

"Which one?"

Flip looked around, judiciously considering the surroundings. "Venice, I think, maybe Redondo. No, I don't see any pier. Not Redondo."

"You think you could narrow it down a little, Flip?" Mark asked impatiently." It might make it easier for him."

The older man shook his head. "Don't think that's gonna help, Mark. There's a lot of beach between here and Malibu."

"It's worse than that," Mark sighed. "He may not even know I've left." The he lifted his chin stubbornly. "No, he'll figure it out. He knows I wouldn't just take off without telling him."

"You might have to, this time." Flip said gently. The he sat back, smiling broadly again. "But we've got a little while. Hey, maybe you want to look at the schematics one more time?"

Mark shook his head. "No, not now." He turned and scanned the crowds fanned out below them on the beach, searching among them for a familiar face, not sure he'd ever felt quite so alone.

00000

The dampness had penetrated all the way to his back, and hung like a cold cloak on his shoulders, but the pain was less, replaced by dull numbness. A night bird hooted. _Not something you hear in the city_. And all around the dark. _A few stars would be nice. _And, he thought it through slowly, closing his eyes again--everything seemed slower now--it was midwinter; the night would be very long.

00000

The conversation had become a little strained. Mark sat there, having lost his place. Flip looked at him impatiently. "It's a lot to ask; he has no idea where you are."

"Doesn't matter." Even to himself, his obstinacy sounded unreasonable, yet he persisted. "He _will_ come."

"A week, a month." Flip shook his head slowly. "Eventually." He sighed. "Won't be pretty."

"Thanks, Flip." He couldn't hide the chagrin. "Just what a guy needs to hear."

"Just being realistic. _Somebody_ has to be. You should consider my offer, Mark, you'll never get a better one." Flip was rolling up the schematic, slowly and carefully.

"I still think of you a lot," Mark reached out, to reassure him, but somehow fell short of a touch. "I'd never forget you."

Flip's smile was a little bitter. "Yeah, I know, but life goes on."

"You seem okay."

"And you," Flip admitted.

"Yeah," Mark's smile was a little nervous; he glanced over his shoulder again, "for now . . . I just wish he'd come."

00000

The black had faded into gray so slowly that he'd barely taken note of it at first. Nothing hurt except for a bone-aching chill. He'd heard a car go by, far up and away from where he lay. _You're a long way from the road._ And, from the infrequency of the sounds of passing vehicles, it was not much of one.

00000

"Last chance," Flip gestured to the schematic, neatly rolled on the table in front of him.

Mark looked down at it, wondering why he could no longer remember how he'd gotten here. "Oh, Flip, I think I'll take my chances."

The older man was studying him with sadness, as though Mark was already lost.

"Well, I've gotta go, then." Flip said, with quiet certainty.

"Thank you," Mark replied, not getting up. "Thanks for keeping me company."

Flip quirked a smile. "Anytime, my friend."

And then he was off, wending his way through a thinning crowd. Mark watched him go. For a moment the loneliness that gripped him was so frightening that he almost called out, as he got half to his feet. Then he sank back down again. The cool breeze had settled in and the crowd on the beach was no more--only a few scattered souls, wandering the shoreline.

_Of course . . . it's winter._

He closed his eyes, letting the suddenly cool air numb his face.

00000

A steady rustling sound, away up and to his right. _They've come back to finish it,_ the first fleeting thought made him drag his eyes open, not sure what difference it would make, but feeling the compulsion even so.

One person descending the hill. Mark couldn't call out. It didn't matter. He'd been seen. But Hardcastle's approach was definitely one of a man who wasn't sure what he'd find.

_Say something._

It came out barely more than a breathy croak, not the smart-assed quip he'd been hoping for.

"What took you so long?"

And then blackness.

00000

Mark spotted him from across the exercise yard, standing there with an altogether familiar stance, not threatening, but self-possessed. He hassled no one, but everyone gave him his space. He nodded, and McCormick nodded back. He was gestured over with a jerk of Buddy Denton's chin and Mark traversed the yard with the skills that he had taught him.

"Hey, kid, long time, no see."

"Hey, Buddy," Mark frowned, and looked around. No question where he was, but something was missing. The _texture_ of the place was wrong.

"I'm not supposed to be here," he said, flat out, to the older man.

"That's what they all say," Denton grinned. "And still we're here."

"No," Mark shook his head impatiently. "I'm _not_."

Denton shrugged. "Having a bad day, huh? That happens, too."

"Yeah," Mark admitted, "a bad day." Then he hunched his shoulders, fighting off a cold chill that crept through his denims like the damp winds off the Pacific. "He wouldn't put me back here."

"Who?" Buddy asked casually.

"Hardcase."

"Oh, _him_. Are we on that again? Hell, the judge who put me in here is dead and gone twenty years now."

Another cold chill, whether at Denton's words or a glimpse of another familiar face on the other side of the yard, Mark couldn't be sure. Denton had caught the direction of his gaze and shook his head once, hard.

"You stay away from that one; Weed's crazy."

"I know," Mark said quietly.

"Hey, you know Hardcastle put him in here, too." Denton was giving Mark a strange look. Weed might think you was kinda kin, or something, on account of that. But I'm telling you, steer clear."

"I know, I _know_," Mark's voice had taken on an impatient, brittle edge. "What the hell am I _doing_ here?"

"You were sentenced here."

"I didn't _do_ anything."

"Then leave."

Mark turned slowly, studying the four walls of the yard, and the concertina wire above that, and, higher still, the wires that crisscrossed overhead--not a single clean view, no unobstructed sight line that did not reinforce that one idea.

_You're in prison. Get used to it._

"No. He'll find me."

"Who?" Denton asked.

McCormick said nothing.

00000

Voices, shouting. None of them familiar. Alarms ringing—he must have made a break for it. His throat was on fire, everything was, and he couldn't even drag in a deep enough breath to say 'I give up.' Hands pushed him down, held him down. A sharp bite in his right arm and then another quick burn in the same spot, and the alarms faded.

00000

"Buddy?" It was dark, or as dark as it ever got in prison. There was still enough light from the walkway to give the general outline of things.

"Yeah, kid," Denton answered wearily.

"You're gonna get out of here, too."

"Sure, kid," Denton agreed, though he sounded as if he was merely humoring the man on the top bunk.

"No, really, before _me_," Mark insisted.

Denton laughed bitterly. "Yeah, and I'll live happily ever after with my old lady."

"You will," Mark said softly, not pointing out that 'ever' would be only five months. "She's waiting for you . . . and I'll get out of here, too. I _was_ out."

"You sick or something, kid?"

"Maybe." Mark shivered again.

00000

A hand on his forehead. No one was shouting, but someone cursed just once with quiet intensity. _You must've screwed up_. There were words that followed, but nothing he could make any sense out of. All he knew was that he was cold, and everything hurt, and he couldn't lift his arms. _Handcuffs. You really screwed up._

00000

"Okay, kid, so you don't belong in here, and I don't belong in here," Denton laughed as they stood, side by side, in the chow line. "So, who does?"

"Weed Randall," Mark said with bitter intensity.

"Hah," Denton retorted, "Don't let _him_ hear you say that."

The younger man let his forehead fall forward into his hand. The headache was maddening and he couldn't shake it. "That's why," he began slowly, with the gradual dawning of understanding. "_That's_ why I'm here."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Because I killed him."

Denton looked shocked for a split second, then cast a look sweeping across the room and said, "Nah, kid, there he is. You almost had me for a minute there. Thought they'd be finding a body down in one of the laundry bins." Denton shook his head. "Now I know you're a kidder and all, but Weed over there, he doesn't have much of a sense of humor."

"He thinks I'm a funny guy," Mark added, dully.

"Maybe so," Buddy replied doubtfully. "Just stay out of his way, will ya?"

McCormick nodded once, hopelessly.

00000

More voices, and one was a woman's. _That's weird._ Someone touched his forehead again, quick and light, a woman's touch. And then a man's voice, very familiar, muttered, "I almost forgot," and he felt something cold, and just as familiar, slipped around his neck. _Mine. _He wanted to reach up, to touch it, but he couldn't.

00000

He was walking across the exercise yard. He heard Denton, from somewhere behind him, say, "McCormick?" in a voice that sounded not at all like his, but still familiar. He almost turned to see, but, no, it couldn't be Hardcase, not here. He walked on toward Weed, who was standing by himself, leaning against a wall, arms crossed, a wry smile on his face.

"Hey, Skid."

Mark nodded warily.

"I wondered when you'd get around to visiting."

"You're dead," Mark said flatly.

"Doesn't mean you have to be a stranger," Weed's smile broadened. "And you and me with so much in common and all."

"You're a killer."

"Aren't we all?"

"Not like _that_," Mark said fervently.

"And Hardcastle--"

"Stay _away_ from him."

"—put us _both_ in here. How goddamn ironic is that?"

"I'm not here," Mark looked back behind him--looked for Buddy, looked for the judge, and saw no one he knew.

"He's not here. _You_ are." Randall said, very calmly, as if it was something that needed explaining.

"_No_. He'll come. He _came_."

_It's a nightmare. Just open your eyes._

00000

It was dark, and in the shadowy corner of the unfamiliar room there was something moving--a man, half-crouched in a fighter's stance. _Central lock-up. His name is Kotts._

He yanked his arms; there was a blinding flash of pain from one, but he could raise neither. _Dammit, they don't leave you handcuffed in lock-up. _Unless you haven't been processed yet. Kotts was moving toward him.

"He's got a knife." He heard himself gasp it out, as though he'd already been stabbed and there was no breath left to put behind it.

"What the hell, McCormick?"

It was Hardcastle's voice, but Mark couldn't take his eyes off the menacing figure in the shadows.

"Shh . . . there's nothing there," Hardcase was insistent. "No knives."

Mark finally saw him, off to the side, leaning forward from out of a chair.

"You're safe--you're in a hospital. I already told ya that."

Mark felt a hand take his. Real. This was real. The judge had taken him to the infirmary. He remembered that now. He said as much.

"No—the _hospital_," Hardcastle replied. Very insistent. As if the distinction was somehow important.

Mark frowned. "Must be pretty bad then." Everything hurt. This was worse than that time.

_But he's here. He came back. He found you._

He held on to the hand, just in case.


End file.
